Christmas in Gotham
by tasuku-sempai
Summary: Ross Grey just isn't feeling the holiday spirit, but a certain someone is determined to put a smile on his face.
1. Chapter 1

Cold air. Running frigid, invisible fingers through my hair and probing deep, deep down into my lungs. I'm sure I can hear your voice. I'm sure these invisible hands are yours-that or you sent them. Sent them to torment me, remind me that much worse than freezing on this starless night in Gotham, I'm freezing alone.

I'm not sure if you died…enough of that thinking. Enough of it, I tell myself. I don't need this, not now…I breathe a deep sigh of relief when the bus finally arrives, expelling all the cold, probing solitude you sent to me. Merry Christmas to you, too.

My cold, thin fingers are having trouble trying to get at the coins in my pocket. The driver looks at me, bored and expectant. My knuckles won't bend, and my whole hand is trembling as I try to coax my stubborn frozen appendages into paying the bus fare. Just as I am about to give up and walk home, an old woman gets up from her seat and pays the fare for me. She smiles warmly at me, and I try my best to return the gesture, but find that the muscles in my face are just as uncooperative as the rest of me. I realize how sad and forced the grimace I'm wearing must look, but it's all I can do. I sit down next to the old woman, who talks to me about her husband, and about how he had lovely auburn hair, just like mine, when he was alive.

The bus is stopping. We're at my apartment complex. "So did mine," I mumble.

And before I get off the bus, before I can even stop the words from coming out, I say, "I hate my hair."

--

It's December 23rd. As I ascend the stairs that lead to my shitty, one-bedroom apartment, I see all sorts of pseudo-hipster art school scum lazing around, passing Christmas-themed pipes and bongs to each other. I am tempted to join them, being a twenty-something pseudo-hipster pothead myself. But getting high isn't as fun without you. The worst, though, is when I get high and see you…that freaks me out. I fully hallucinate that you're there, in person, laughing at me and telling me that it never meant anything, that I never meant anything. I have to sit there, looking into your cold, green eyes, watching your perfect straight, blonde hair and pale skin, and I have to remember that we didn't leave each other on the best note. And I can't even know if you're haunting me, because I don't even know if you're dead…but I'm not thinking about that. No, not tonight.

I get a phone call from my friend, an indie girl who listens to indie bands and wears indie clothes. She wants to know if I want to go to her house and get baked. She knows that, even if I don't want to, I will. I never turn down a direct offer, not one that involves drugs. So, off I go.

--

We're high and watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she makes a move. Straddles me, grinning mischievously. I can't help but wonder if she planned this. I picture her pacing back and forth in her room, wringing her hands together like an old cartoon villain, saying, _"Yeees, I'll get him nice and high, then, when he least expects it…,"_

But I should have expected it. This always happens. I don't mind, though. I make out with her, then we go into her bedroom. She stops by the doorway, deciding whether or not to turn the light on. I shake my head, _'no'_. No lights. It's too real that way. And the last thing I need when I've got such a nice bake going is contact with reality.

--

She's sleeping as I gather my clothes. The sun will be up soon, and I've completely come down. The frigid breeze that greets me as I walk outside is a relief. The haunting, maniacal laughter that seems to follow me, growing ever closer, is less of one.

I know the laugh. Everyone in Gotham knows this laugh. I shake my head, and I'm wondering how one person's luck can be this goddamn bad…

I turn the corner and, sure enough, yellow teeth and a blood grin are waiting for me.

"Tis the season," says the Joker. Then, that blood-chilling cackle fills my ears before everything turns black.


	2. Chapter 2

"So," drawls the clown, his face inches from mine. "Here I am, with a knife pressed to your throat…and you're not even here, are you? You're off somewhere, missing it!"

He's right. My mind is miles away. Where, exactly, I don't know, but where isn't important.

"I know that look, Ross," says the Joker, smirking. "Longing. That wistful, distant look. Thinking of your boyfriend?"

He laughs. I don't bother to ask how he knows my name, or even why he decided to take me to…wherever we were.

I look around for the first time since regaining consciousness. The room is surprisingly well-lit and furnished. There's a book case on the wall and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

The Joker must notice my shift in attention. "Oh, this place, right?" he grins and licks his lips. "I'm a classy guy, Ross…you were expecting something more _grimy_, right?"

I don't respond.

"You know, you're just no fun at all," he sighs, sitting down on an overstuffed yellow couch which blocks the only door. "Completely resigned. He sure broke your heart, didn't he, Snookums?"

And once again, I'm miles away, looking into those dazzlingly bright green eyes, hating every inch of that perfect straw hair. I don't know where we are, exactly, but where doesn't matter.

"What if I told you…," begins the clown, in a deep, raspy voice. "That I could arrange for the two of you to meet again?"

I look at the Joker, straight into eyes as black as his soul. He has my attention now, and he knows it. He laughs.

"Merry Christmas, Ross Grey!" he cackles, circling around me, knife in hand.

"But let's not forget," he adds, pressing the cold blade to my skin once again. " 'Tis better to give than to receive…"

I remember, at this point, that my hands and legs are tied to the chair that I'm sitting in.

I hold my breath. I'm not sure what else to do in this sort of situation.


	3. Chapter 3

Half. Only half of my face was slashed, forming a half grin, giving the appearance of a smirk. And as I bled profusely, the Joker threw a needle and a few thick strands of leather onto the floor next to me. He cut me loose from the chair I had been bound to, and, no longer smiling, said, "Clean yourself up and meet me by the car."

Then, he left, closing the door behind him. I stared at the needle, at the leather threads, and suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

"Clean yourself up…"

I felt sick, but I had no time for hatred, or bitterness, or anything. I was bleeding.

Threading the rough leather into the sewing needle, I pinched what was left of my cheek and closed my eyes…

--

Thirty minutes later, I'm all stitched up and ready to go. Without a mirror to work from, my efforts had been mostly guesswork. As such, I knew, before I saw my reflection in the roughed up limousine waiting for me on the corner, that I looked much more gruesome than the Joker. The tough, leather straps holding the left side of my face together, covered in dried blood, makes it look like I'm baring a set of rawhide fangs.

I sit in the backseat with the Joker, some henchman in a clown mask is driving. The Joker laughs when he sees my new look.

He presses his hand to my other, still-intact cheek, and says, "No tears, hmm? Got right down to business, it seems…I like it, Mr. Grey."

At that, he gestures to the driver, and we're off. To where, I don't know…or care…

--

We're in the car for a while. Wherever we're going, apparently it's far away.

"So…how did you know him?" asks the Joker.

"Who?" I ask, surprised that I am still able to speak.

"You know who." I do, of course. I do know who.

"I met him through a mutual friend," I say.

The Joker looks at me, skepticism ripe in his evil eyes.

"A mutual…drug-dealing…friend," I confess.

The Joker laughs. "Careful with that stuff, Mr. Grey…too much of it'll make you…,"

Dramatic pause. "Crazy."

He laughs, slapping his knees at his own joke.

Long car ride. Laughter fades. Silence sets in.

"Did you know his…father?" asks the Joker, his tone eerily sincere.

"Eric Harvey didn't have a father," I spit.

"Oh really?" crooned the Joker mockingly. "Born out of thin air? Or has the holiday season got you thinking he was a manger-bound, immaculate conception?"

I don't know what he's talking about.

"Eric Harvey had a father…friend of mine, as a matter of fact…," the Joker smirks. By the look on his face, I can tell he's thinking back, remembering something.

Strange. In our short time together, he had never stricken me as the nostalgic type.


End file.
